Miss Elizabeth's Captive

Jamie held th

e margarita to my lips...chilled and well salted. I sipped and used the proximity of his body to thrust Little Sam into his abdomen. The softness of the cashmere sweater felt magnificent and I closed my eyes and sipped again.

I paused. I demurred but only for a moment. My homophobia had evaporated. I brought my arms around the narrow shoulders. Jamie looked up in surprise. But it was not a shocked surprise, it was an expression of pleasant surprise.

As the scene unfolded on the video, that recollection did not come to the screen. Jamie’s head was turned from the camera. No viewer would ever know the alluring look of enjoyment in knowing that I had broken the rules and Jamie would be an unwitting beneficiary.

Her smile finally turned to soft words as my hands smoothed down her torso to the narrow girlish hips.

“You should not be free, Mr. Sam.”

Innocuous words, certainly not suggesting that Jamie was covertly complicit in any escape and subsequent dalliance. And unfortunately, the soft giggle, seeming to wheedle further action on my part, was not heard on the tape.

“No more drink, Jamie. Later.”

I released her hips. Jamie knew to return my margarita to the tray. When she returned I grasped the bottom of her white cashmere sweater and gruffly pulled it over her head in one tug. I laughed with noted perversity as the puffy pink and pierced nipples appeared. And as the screen showed me stooping to suck the left areola into my mouth and tenderly toy with the right, I envisioned the reaction of a jury to having what appeared to be a young girl forced to endure the powerfully compelling maneuvers of a virile and obviously aroused grown man.

“You’re nicely sized, Mr. Winthrop,” attorney Suzanne mockingly chimed in pressing the pause button.

The frame stopped with Little Sam standing centered on the huge screen.

“But let me explain some things I learned while a prosecutor. That phallus of yours won’t be so proudly displayed at the clinic where they test sex offenders. No, Mr. Winthrop, you’ll find yourself strapped to a chair with an inflatable penis cuff firmly wrapped around your manhood while a charming young and pretty psychiatric nurse flashes slides of graphic sexual interplay. And your response will be measured. Yes, your sexual profile will be sliced and diced and documented for all the world.

“And the bad news, Mr. Winthrop, will be that if you happen to endure the battery of tests and there is in fact a tinge of normality found, then you’ll still be sharing a cell with a guy named ‘Bubba’. And I’m sure he’ll have more time to consider your defense than any jury. Bubba will love learning of your amorous escapades with children.

“Look across from you. The notion of ‘I thought she was over eighteen, your honor’ isn’t going to play.”

A finger hit the pause button again and the tape resumed. I did indeed look across the table. Liz sat expressionless. But little Jamie was playing into the role...pouting.

‘Mommy, must I watch the horrible man again,’ her saddened face communicated to the naive.

An act of course, but for whom?

And then I realized, it was not only a rehearsal, there was a message being sent.. ‘there is a perceived threat to survival and the belief that a captor will act on that threat’. A haunting element of the Stockholm Syndrome.

And the message was received. Jamie was prepared to take the act on the road, so to speak, and play her role before whomever required her testimony. And her portrayal of the role of brutally assaulted, innocent girl could only improve over time. Look how young she appeared with only three days of preparation!

And what was I to do, subpoena the withered testicles which Liz had so callously snipped and had tucked away in a drawer?

My eyes returned to the screen. I had no choice but to watch as my image leaned down and whisked the short skirt to the floor, exposing to the camera Jamie’s little girl buttocks. So fine, so smooth, so rounded. I was happy not to be wearing the inflatable penis cuff in the conference room. Little Sam, betraying me again, reacted to the scene in the exact opposite manner of what I needed. He began to engorge.

On that late Wednesday afternoon, depicted on the tape was just me and Jamie, no imposing Liz, no constraining chastity device, no wrist cuffs.

Yes, I, Samuel L. Winthrop, III, master investment banker, ivy league educated, masculine college athlete, made love to the altered ingenue. And before a camera, a video recording device cleverly equipped to begin filming with the slightest movement and capturing the must lascivious and licentious events in the examination room.

How many tapes did Liz have of Jamie being stripped, humiliated, and milked of his remaining impotent male essence, his system being deluged with female hormones?

And now she had the most precious recording of all.

Yes, dear reader, macho Samuel L. Winthrop sodomized the effeminate castrate Jamie before a camera. And as I was being forced to watch, Little Sam celebrated his triumph once again.

The screen showed that I fell to my knees and licked the little stub of Jamie’s locked penis. My hands gripped his buttocks. My hot tongue forced a sigh from the pleasured hermaphrodite. And then as I had diligently learned over the weeks, I knew to tenderly begin to stroke his sensitive empty scrotal sac and perineum.

Little Sam was raging. My hands reached for the ever present jar of lubricant. Jamie smiled as my fingers applied the slippery unguent to his rectum. But he still remained facing away from the camera. His reaction of pleasure went unrecorded. But I felt his little penis stiffen in my mouth.

Little Sam took over at that point, forcing me to pick up the lithe naked form, turn him facing the mirror and bend him over the stainless steel examination table, tummy down. Jamie voluntarily spread his legs and opened himself to me. The camera of course did not capture that. What it did capture was the feigned look of duress as the tip of Little Sam tenderly rubbed within the oiled cleft of the girlish cheeks.

Jamie’s face, unseen by me, said ‘No’, but his inviting backside said otherwise. Little Sam plunged. Jamie was both tight yet receptive, and knowing Liz, the puckered anus was deliberately kept tactile just for moments such as on Wednesday, when a virile male could pleasure himself with Jamie’s tight but yielding rear aperture.